A Slice of Life
by Weiila
Summary: Short stories, character studies, or brief returns to pure humor, connected to my other fanfics but can be read on their own. In the first one, the orc shaman Dor'ash demonstrates how to properly use your pet Forsaken against stubborn prisoners.
1. Humor:  Dorash and Sarah

_Author's note: Sometimes, you just need to write something silly. Or short. So in the spirit of Nara Bluestar's _Days _and T Mirai's _Every Rose Has Its Thorn_, this is where I shall post short character studies or slice-of-life stories for the original characters of my fanfic series. _

_Or, as is the case here, plain silly AU tales._

_Oh yes, we begin with an AU about my unlucky pair Sarah and Dor'ash. It's AU because they never, ever go to Northrend, and this is just a take on how Dor'ash would react to one of the most controversial quests in WotLK._

_

* * *

_

Interrogation Tactics

The people stationed on Amber Ledge could definitely be said to be pretty nervous. The increasingly worrisome reports about the ground breaking up, and constant attacks by blue dragons and their servants turned everyone's nerves as brittle as crisp ice.

So when there was a new, sudden element of disruption, people reacted as their taut-as-bowstring minds dictated.

"You want me to _what_?"

The furious snarl caused several already jittery mages all through the tower to jump, and drop whatever they were carrying. The sound of shattering glass and swearing came from the upper level, where various liquids now spread out over the floor – some of them sizzling.

Guards came running and started shouting, though still a little perplexed, at the sight of a very pale Librarian Normantis balking under the onslaught of furious ranting pouring from an orc's mouth. The orc menaced the researcher with nothing more than a green finger continuously jabbed into the man's chest. Still, that was a big finger.

When the guards drew nearer, a skeletal woman stepped up from the orc's shadow and waved her hand in a somewhat placating way. It didn't make anyone feel any better that her stained robe indicated her being a mage – one of them, in a way. Yet her flesh was rotting on her very bones, and she watched them steadily with no eyes.

"Don't worry, gentlemen," she said, "we're just having a minor disagreement."

The orc looked up for a moment, rising the guards' hackles even more with his enraged stare.

"Your pretty little moral code forbids you to torture prisoners? Good!" he snapped, then turned back to the recoiling Normantis. "But just because I'm an orc, you think _I'm_ fine with it?"

The guards hesitated, and an uneasy silence fell amongst everyone else peeking around corners and down stairs to find out what was going on. Desperate situation call for desperate measures, but beneath the surface guilt simmered. And to have an orc lay it bare made many a mage of the Kirin Tor feel ill.

"Please forgive me…" Normantis finally managed. He straightened, nervously brushing his violet tabard. "I understand that it's a foul business, but we're desperate to save Lady Evanor…"

The orc snorted and shook his head.

"There has to be some other way," he grunted, raising his other hand and glaring at it. In his grip was what looked like a smooth wand, with a heavy grip and a red button on it. Suffice to say, Dor'ash had not been pleased when the Librarian explained what it did, and what it was to be used for.

He glared at Normantis, then at the nervous guards and the pale faces visible from various corners of the tower. They were scared, he understood that. This whole business made his stomach knot in dread too. In a longer perspective, it was a disaster in the making. Right now, he hardly got a wink of sleep worrying about dragons swooping down to dig their claws into-

"This is the might of the Horde?" a new voice spoke up, sneer lacing every syllable. "Soft-hearted warriors faltering at the idea of blood?"

Dor'ash turned to glare at the man sitting on a chair by the wall. Magical chains twisted around his arms and legs, but his stony, hateful expression had cracked into a manically gleeful one. His face was an unhealthy shade of grey, eyes burning with desperate fanaticism. One of the Kirin Tor, who had sworn allegiance to Malygos in a mad hope to keep his own powers.

There was not a nerve in Dor'ash's body that thought that the wretch deserved mercy. But what Normantis had asked of him disgusted the shaman even more.

"I'd have expected more from one of your kind," the prisoner said and spat on the floor.

Dor'ash's temper flared, but Sarah stepped in between.

"Racists, all of you!" she snapped, rolling her head. "Just because he's huge and green. Aren't you supposed to be the enlightened ones?" She turned to Normantis, raising what remained of her eyebrows.

The Librarian started to speak, then faltered and looked away, obviously disturbed by having been lectured about morality by an undead. Dor'ash looked down at Sarah, her arms crossed in a huff, and he smiled.

Then her scowl turned to a smirk and she straightened.

"Give me that," she said and reached for the neural needler in Dor'ash's grip. "I'll do it!"

"No!" He only had to raise his hand the slightest bit to get the torture device out of her reach. She made a disappointed noise and folded her arms again.

"You're no fun," she complained.

Dor'ash just sighed and shook his head.

An uneasy silence settled. Normantis stepped forwards, hesitated and stopped. Dor'ash frowned, thinking. Then suddenly, a hoarse chuckle broke the peace.

"You'll need better allies than this," the prisoner snickered. Normantis glared at him, clenching his fists. "Your dear Evanor is lost! I only regret I can't spread the word on how meek the orcs have become under their fool of a Warchief."

Dor'ash's eyes narrowed to slits and he turned slowly towards the prisoner. The man smirked back at him.

"I didn't say you were off the hook," Dor'ash icily said. He turned his head. "Sarah."

"Yes?" she said.

"Seduce him."

One could have heard a needle fall. Actually, one heard a lot of new test tubes hit the floor and shatter. It was difficult to tell whose eyes bulged the more, the prisoner's or Normantis'.

Sarah clasped her hands against the sagging bags of rotting fat that were her breasts.

"Dor'ash!" she gasped. "I'm not that kind of girl!"

He put his massive hands on her shoulders and looked at her gravely.

"I know, Sarah, but think about Jonathan. Every minute we waste here is another minute he suffers in the clutches of the blue dragonflight."

"Oh…" she sighed, then raised her hands to her face. "My cheeks are blossoming with a youthful blush. Really."

When she lowered her sharp fingertips, something oozed from the pinpricks left on her skin. He removed his hands, and she turned to the prisoner. He sat stock still, absolute terror frozen on his face.

"I'm doing this for the sake of my lover," Sarah said, lowering her voice to a croaking murmur as she reached out and tipped the man's chin up. She gave him a sweet smile and leaned closer. "I'll do an-y-thing for him…"

"I'll talk! I'll talk!"


	2. Mini character study: Dor'ash

_Author's note: This was buried in my huge WoW document, and it's so short that I went back and forth on whether or not I should bother posting it. But in the end, I think it's cute enough.  
_

Voices in the Snow

When he was ten years old, Dor'ash heard them clearly for the first time. They had always been there, but he had never made out the words until then.

He really tried not to let anyone notice, but the whispers were so fascinating that he lost himself in weak moments. In the early frosty mornings, or late at night, when he was sleepy, he often faltered and sat still or laid awake, listening. They spoke about rushing above the land and through the tree tops in silvery, invisible rivulets, toying with snow and rain and leaves. Of running down slopes and rocks in merry splashes and mighty rivers, or spreading a cold, sleepy blanket over the landscape. Of _being_ the landscape.

When caught, he always muttered something about hearing a bird. It didn't hold water for very long.

But he had to try. He only had vague memories of what had been, of the warmth and the never ending green hills. Here in this snowy, harsh but not unfriendly environment, there was little warmth and no islands floating through the air. That was not what he remembered. He recalled the foul taste in the air, the stench of the green fire and the fear and disgust in everyone's eyes.

He knew it was all over the day he heard heavy steps in the snow and looked up to find master Drek'Thar towering above him. Gaze stuck on the ground he obediently followed the blind shaman as he lead the way to his own hut. It felt as if everyone along the way stared at the two of them, but Dor'ash didn't dare looking up to make sure.

The great Farseer of the Frostwolf clan didn't need any light, so he was unconcerned when he let the orc child in and closed the door, obscuring the entire room in darkness. Still he waited for a few moments while Dor'ash blinked, eyes going from the bright white outside to what little illumination the embers in the fireplace offered.

As soon as his sight began to clear, Dor'ash was asked to place a couple of new logs on the glowing remains of the last fire. He obeyed, gripping the hard pieces of wood so hard that a couple of splinters pierced his skin. It hardly bothered him at all. But then he had to let go of that imaginary life line.

Drek'Thar remained silent while Dor'ash nervously poked at the embers with smaller sticks until the fire crackled to life. It made it easier still to see, casting warm, flickering light over everything. Nothing sinister about the dancing shadows, Dor'ash thought with some detached surprise. It would have felt more appropriate had they dug into Drek'Thar's aged face and made hollows of his milky eyes.

"Sit down," Drek'Thar said as he himself sunk down comfortably on one of the rugs by the fire.

Dor'ash obeyed in the same way as he had followed the shaman inside and fetched the logs. He stared down at his hands, curled by his crossing ankles. His fingers were still so small then, although as thick as a human child's wrist.

"Your parents tell me that you sit and listen to nothing," Drek'Thar softly said.

There was no use lying, he knew that.

"Yes, master Drek'Thar."

"What are you listening to?"

"Whispering voices."

He still didn't look up. The blind shaman probably knew that, too.

"And what are these voices saying, Dor'ash?" Drek'Thar asked.

"A lot of things." He grit his teeth, knowing he had to continue or it would be an act of disloyalty. "It's… hard to explain. Maybe I'm just insane."

He said the last bit far too quickly. Hopeful.

"Why would you think like that about such a gift?" the shaman asked, a sharp tone in his voice.

"I don't want to be a warlock, master Drek'Thar."

In the silence, Dor'ash wondered if he would receive a blow for that. He imagined that he would feel it for days to come, well aware how strong Drek'Thar was. But it never happened.

"I see," the shaman said, and this time the sharpness was gone. Dor'ash looked up to see a faint smile curve around the adult orc's tusks. "You shouldn't have kept it a secret, but I respect your reasoning. No, you will not have to become a warlock. No one here ever will."

Not ever again.

Dor'ash would never be sure whether Drek'Thar had found him silly back then, or endearing.


End file.
